


Out To Get Me

by gross_batpanda



Series: Chicagoland [7]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Come Swallowing, Gross, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:05:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7481682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gross_batpanda/pseuds/gross_batpanda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He pauses for a moment by the passenger side door, bending to peek in and be sure he’s got the right one, even though he already knows he does. There’s a cigarette dangling between George’s fingers where his arm rests on the open driver’s side window, from which he flicks off the ashes and bites out a low, rumbled, “Get in.”<br/>-<br/>More modern gross predator George Washington, now available to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out To Get Me

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, someone on tumblr asked for road head.
> 
> Title from "My Car Is Gonna Kill Me" by Pink Lincolns.

The sky is pink and orange with sunset by the time Ben pushes his way out of the school building. He squints against the light, shouldering his backpack more securely on his shoulders, and checks his watch with a yawn. Fifteen minutes before his train arrives. His dark blue blazer wasn’t made for early spring, he thinks, as he walks and begins to sweat beneath it. Should’ve taken it off before he left, but now he doesn’t really have time to stop.

Ben swears under his breath and wipes the sweat from his hairline, cursing whoever thought wearing their blazers at practice in the week leading up to the district tournament was a good idea. Something about morale or maybe building confidence through dress. Either way it’s stupid, he thinks as he waits to cross a street, shifting uncomfortably in his khakis. He’s had them since he was maybe fourteen, snug in all the wrong places and noticeably too short when he sits; he’s desperately in need of a new pair before the tournament, but it’ll have to wait until his mom gets paid.

As he fidgets impatiently for the crossing signal, he thinks he sees it out of the corner of his eye, that familiar gray exterior, battered and having seen far better days. But he shakes his head and begins crossing on the walk signal--no way he’d be here, in this neighborhood...right? Right.

No way he’d be around here, and yet one block later that same gray exterior passes by, signals right and turns onto a quieter street. Ben would know the Tercel anywhere, and he tries to push down the mix of excitement and pure apprehension at seeing it here, in this setting, in broad daylight...or broad twilight, he guesses, glancing at where the sun is still barely burning low on the horizon.

He tries not to stare openly, watches the car roll to a stop near the curb, the tail lights blinking once, twice before shutting off. Ben swallows, glances at his watch again, and hurriedly goes right to cross the street. There will be other trains.

He pauses for a moment by the passenger side door, bending to peek in and be sure he’s got the right one, even though he already knows he does. There’s a cigarette dangling between George’s fingers where his arm rests on the open driver’s side window, from which he flicks off the ashes and bites out a low, rumbled, “Get in.”

Ben doesn’t hesitate, quickly opening the door and slipping his backpack off his shoulders, making to toss it in the back before George tells him to be “Careful with the merchandise, kid.” For once, the merchandise is not a poorly concealed innuendo, and Ben is careful not to disturb the speakers crammed into the backseat as he sets his backpack onto the floor. He slips his blazer off and worries for just a moment about where he’ll put it, before settling on draping it over the back of his seat and climbing in. George pulls away from the curb he even has the door fully closed, and Ben pushes down the instinct to fasten his seatbelt, trying instead to look cool and relaxed.

It’s been months since he and George started this...thing, with them, the thing where Ben sneaks down to the club’s office when no one is watching so he can be bent over George’s desk. This thing where he lies to his parents about staying at Caleb’s or Abe’s for the weekend but goes instead to George’s loft, drinking beer and watching porn and getting fucked until there are bruises on his hips that he hopes no one sees in the locker rooms at school. This thing where George watches his dark-haired, wide-eyed “friend” make Ben come over and over until he’s boneless and sobbing with overstimulation.

It’s been months, and yet Ben still gets that same flurry of nerves every time he gets close enough to smell George’s soap. He keeps his hands in his lap, occasionally swiping his sweaty palms over his too-tight khakis, tries to think of what to say. 

George beats him to it. “You look...wholesome.” He says the word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, sparing barely half a glance at Ben’s khakis-and-polo combination, the blazer draped over the seat. “You usually get outta school this late?”

Ben shakes his head, keeps his mouth shut until he has the words mapped out in his mind and he’s sure no extraneous sounds will come out, knows how much George hates when he stutters. It’s the same thing he does in-- “Speech and debate,” he finally says, nodding in satisfaction when nothing comes out wrong. “The district tournament is next week so practice these days is…” George is rolling his eyes before he can finish, and Ben shuts his mouth, swallowing around the knot in his throat. Fights down that need to fill the silence with words and focuses on watching the streets pass by out the window instead. George doesn’t seem to be driving with any destination in mind, but Ben knows better by now than to think that George does anything without knowing how it’ll end.

He dares to fiddle with the radio, spinning the dial quickly when they hear a fraction of a song with a thumping bass line and lyrics about riding a pony and George scowls. In the end he settles for playing whatever tape George has in at the moment. Ben resists his urge to nod along, barely even tapping his fingers along, in an attempt to seem as aloof and unaffected as possible. He’s finally starting to recognize the streets they’re on, some of the same isolated and barren roads that they take when George drives him between the club, the loft, and the train station. Can’t be too careful about who might see. The streetlights begin to flick on one by one as they drive, and as the sky finally darkens from a deep purple into a dark, inky blue, Ben feels George’s big, callused hand settle on his wrist.

Ben shoots one quick, panicked look at George, trying to gauge his expression, but his eyes are fixed on the road. For a moment Ben almost wants to rest his other hand on George’s, wondering at this kind of closeness between them, but before he can even think about it, fingers tighten around his wrist and pull his hand across the console until it rests on George’s own thigh.

Ben swallows and feels a surge of heat pool low in his stomach, blood rushing to both his cheeks and his dick so quickly he’s almost dizzy with it. This is familiar territory; he knows what’s expected of him now, his fingers trailing to George’s inner thigh. George readjusts in his seat, his thighs falling open easily as he grunts low in his throat. “Go on,” he says gruffly, after a couple of minutes of Ben’s light touch on his thigh. Ben’s eyebrows raise at that, his eyes wide with sudden gnawing worry. He glances out the window again, searches for accusing eyes but finds none in the dark, empty streets. Alright, so he’s doing this.

He takes a deep breath and moves his hand closer to George’s groin, dragging over the zipper as he curls his fingers around the thick line of George’s cock through his jeans. George is still mostly soft, and Ben kneads until he begins to firm up, watches the outline become more apparent beneath the denim. George’s face is unreadable, save for the way he rolls his lips in sometimes, adjusting his grip on the wheel occasionally.  Ben’s own dick is uncomfortably hard in his khakis, and he unbuttons them with his free hand just to relieve some of the pressure, winces as his dick forces the zipper open tooth by tooth.

There are more pressing matters at hand, though, and quite literally so: he stops sliding his hand over the denim of George’s jeans and reaches over with both hands to unbuckle his belt, relishing in the clink of metal, the pop of the button and the sound of the zipper. Ben spits into his own palm and dips his hand into George’s boxers, taking his cock in hand. The angle isn’t one he’s used to, but the motion is the same: George’s warm skin against his palm is familiar, the particularly thick vein that he presses the pad of his thumb against is familiar, the wiry hairs that brush his knuckles on the downstroke are familiar.

Ben takes one more furtive look out the window for any witnesses, then tugs the waistband of George’s boxers down until the elastic rests snugly beneath his balls. He bites his lip as he watches skin gather around the head on the upstroke, pauses and dips his finger into the hood, after all this time still fascinated by George’s uncut cock.

The car only jolts a little bit when George’s hips buck up, his right hand reaching up to fist the collar of Ben’s polo. Ben hears some of the seams pop in that strong grip and very nearly frowns until his head is being pulled down into George’s lap, Ben’s mouth opening automatically to allow George’s cock to slip inside. George hums low on a sigh, sitting back a little to make room for Ben’s head between his pelvis and the steering wheel.

He tries to start off slow with long, savoring licks the way the boys in George’s tapes do, but _god_ , it’s hard to go slow when just the close proximity of George’s cock to his mouth makes him drool like Pavlov’s dog, when the thrill of being outside like this races down his spine. They never go anywhere that risks them being seen--never outside the relatively safe walls of the club, or George’s loft, and while he knows how important it is that no one sees them, he can’t quite shake the warm feeling that creeps into his groin when he imagines getting caught.

Ben doesn’t take his time, fits most of George into his mouth in that first swift move, moans around the familiar taste of George’s cock on his tongue, the stretch if his jaw around its width. The way he laves along the length isn’t teasing or even remotely sexy, probably, but he can’t help himself, knows he’s slobbering once he feels his own drool dripping down his chin. He whines as he drags his tongue over the head and tastes the pre-come gathering at the slit, holds the base in his hand to lick, wet and sloppy, over the length of it. It rests heavy on his cheek when he trails down to mouth at the base and Ben sighs, warm breath washing over George’s balls and making him shift again in his seat. He closes his lips around it again, loose suction just enough to peel that foreskin back as he moves down, flicks his tongue wildly along the head, then back up, closing his lips a little tighter around the hood and licking into it.

He turns his head slightly, lips still sealed around the width of George’s cock, the steering wheel bumping at the back of his head as he looks up. George’s eyes are half-lidded where they’re trained on the road, and Ben would worry if George didn’t know these streets so well. For one fleeting moment Ben thinks of what would happen if they did crash, how his parents would react when they found out their golden boy died sucking cock from the dirty passenger seat of the Tercel, groaning and drooling around the weight in his mouth and loving every moment of it.

Ben pulls off quickly and gasps in a ragged breath, dives down to lick at George’s balls too, anything to distract himself from those kinds of thoughts. He doesn’t even care about the way the coarse hair feels against his tongue, losing himself in the texture and letting his mind go blissfully blank again. He has to be good, he tells himself; if he can at least be good for George he’ll be okay. George lets out that huff that he sometimes does when Ben is taking too long, and Ben decides to go for it: lets his cock slip back into his mouth and takes it in as far as he can, determined to do this right like the boys in the videos, and make this good for George.

He doesn’t. George is just starting to tug at his hair and thrust up into his mouth, humming low under his breath, when Ben gets that sick feeling in his throat, chokes and has to pull off with a wet, rattling cough and a few stuttered apologies.

George grunts loudly, cutting the wheel suddenly and pressing Ben’s face into his thigh with the force of his sharp turn. The Tercel’s engine rumbles as he speeds up for just a few seconds before stopping suddenly. The inertia knocks Ben’s head somewhat painfully into the steering wheel, and then one of George’s hands is on the back of his head, the other holding his cock up at the base and feeding it hastily into Ben’s mouth.

“C’mon, don’t choke,” George grits out, his cock hitting Ben’s soft palate. Both of his hands tangle into Ben’s hair as he forces him down, cock beginning to slide back into his throat. Ben, as usual, is not ready for it, letting out a panicked hum when he struggles for one more breath just a second too late. George holds him down a moment longer, savors the way Ben’s throat contracts around his cock as he chokes anyway, but then that ugly gurgling sound starts to bubble up out of his throat and George huffs as he lets go.

Ben coughs as soon as he’s up, chin still bumping into George’s cock once or twice. George keeps one hand in Ben’s hair, scrubs the other down his own face in frustration, and waits until Ben’s breathing has evened out before he pushes his head back down, a little slower this time.

His thrusts as he fucks Ben’s mouth are shallower, less satisfying, but they’ll get the job done. Ben can handle this much at least, even if he does gag a few times when George presses back just a little too far. Ben’s eyes and lashes are still wet from the first couple of choking fits and the effort of keeping his gagging to a minimum; his nose is runny in that wrecked way that he knows George likes, but at least he doesn’t actually cry this time, and he counts that as a win.

When George finally comes with a few more quick, shallow thrusts and a strangled grunt, Ben’s mouth is loose around him, and a lot of his come ends up just dripping back down the shaft. He swallows what he can, what shoots directly into his throat, then dips down to lick the rest off where it’s trailed down to his balls. He hums when he’s done, and by the time he pulls back up, there’s a thin, sticky string of come connecting his mouth to the head that he breaks with a tentative lick.

There’s a lit cigarette in George’s hand before he’s even fully caught his breath; Ben sits up, cracking his back and neck, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. There’s a wet spot on the front of his underwear, but he’s still not sure if he’s allowed to do anything about it. He looks out the window again, sees only a darkened side street with no pedestrians and a busted street lamp. Further down the road he thinks he can see another car, rocking steadily, and he averts his eyes quickly with a blush and a quiet whine.

George glanced at what Ben was looking at and lets out a quick exhale that’s almost a chuckle. He holds one open palm up to Ben’s mouth; without a word Ben spits into it obediently, and George nods his approval before dipping his own hand into Ben’s snug white underwear. Ben bites his lip to keep from crying out as George gets him nice and wet, pulling the waistband away just enough to let the head of Ben’s dick spring up and peak out over the elastic. He strokes him mostly through the underwear, Ben struggling to keep his hips still and tasting blood when he bites his lip just a bit too hard. When he comes, it’s with a dazed huff of a laugh dragged out into a high-pitched moan; the head of his dick is pressed between George’s knuckles as it spurts his thin come all over his favorite polo shirt, and he feels a stray tear or two roll off his lashes and down to his cheek.

Ben is still sniffling when he collects himself a couple of minutes later, wiping at his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. George is still smoking, a new tape is in the player. Ben grabs a napkin from the floor next to his backpack and wipes off his shirt, frowning deeply at the white streaks settled across the fabric, already thinking of what to tell his mom. He tucks himself back in his pants, sticky and wet and uncomfortable, then glances back at George.

“What were you doing that close to my school, anyway?” he asks, trying to sound casual and push down the hope that George was there just for him.

“Didn’t know it was your school was there,” George replies, and dashes Ben’s hopes. He tilts his head to gesture to the speakers in the back. “I know a guy in the area.”

Ben nods, swallowing his disappointment, then looks at his watch and swears under his breath. It occurs to him suddenly that it’s a weeknight, he has school tomorrow, has _homework_ to do tonight, and the last train will be pulling out of the nearest station long before George can get him there.

He tells George as much, fear and uncertainty in his voice--if he doesn’t make it home tonight, there’s no way he’ll be allowed out again for a few weeks at least, and--well. George sighs like he’s being put out before digging for some change around the car, in the cubby on the door, under his chair, mixed in with the ashes in the tray. He drops the coins into Ben’s lap, and Ben scrambles to gather them all and count them quickly while George starts the engine and drives him to the nearest bus stop, but around the corner where no one will see. He shifts into park but doesn’t cut the engine, just tersely says,  “You’ll wanna hurry or you’ll miss it.” Ben only pauses for a moment, waiting for...something, he’s not sure, but at an expectant quirk of George’s brow he does hurry, grabbing his things rushing out of the car before he can even check his face in the mirror to make sure he looks decent.

George has already driven away as Ben sets his backpack on the sidewalk and puts on the blazer to hide the stains on his shirt.  He slings his backpack over one shoulder, walks briskly to the bus stop and makes it on just in time, slipping in just as the doors are about to close.

Everyone is asleep by the time he gets home; he takes his polo into the shower with him to scrub out the stains as much as he can. It’s late by the time he finally sits down to do his homework; he tries to concentrate on pre-calc and not the way he can smell the Tercel and cigarette smoke and George on his backpack.


End file.
